Playing with Fire
by NathanScott23
Summary: Bertha's perspective on the night she set fire to Mr Rochester's room. One Shot


_I don't usually write fanfic for classic tales, but I was required to write a short story/missing scene out of Jane Eyre for English last year. I thought I might as well post it…instead of letting it fester away for the rest of eternity deep in the bowels of my computer._

Disclaimer - I don't own anything, and I'm not making money from this.

**Playing With Fire**

She sat entranced, watching the amber liquid in the bottle slosh back and forth as her keeper slowly sipped her way to oblivion. A gentle breeze wafted in from the open window. The breeze carried the smoke issuing from the weak fire away from the hearth before it could disappear up the chimney. It filtered into Bertha's corner, where she sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, and her lifeless black hair hanging limply around her face. This ritual of watching Grace drink herself into a stupor happened often enough for Bertha to anticipate it. The smoke drifted closer to her, tickling her nose and her swollen, dark lips. Annoyed, she snarled and swiped at it hastily. Grace, who was sitting in her favourite armchair by the fire, paused only briefly to look at Bertha. Satisfied, she raised the bottle back to her lips.

Bertha observed Grace's movements as they became slower and less precise. She smiled when Grace's head fell back into her seat, and laughed when, halfway to her mouth, the bottle abruptly lost its momentum and instead hung limply from Grace's hand which hung over the arm of the chair. From her corner, Bertha leaned forward quietly, trying to gauge Grace's reaction; Grace didn't stir.

Seizing the opportunity, Bertha stood quietly. She walked slowly towards Grace, her calloused and dirty feet sliding silently over the wooden floor. She saw quite clearly the worn set of keys hanging from a belt fastened around the waist of Grace's brown stuff gown. One discoloured hand reached out and, with dexterity that was proof of many attempts, slipped the well oiled key ring gently off Grace's belt. Bertha held the keys tightly in her fist, silencing any sound, and proceeded to snicker in delight. Grace snorted loudly and her head lolled to the side. Her red hair began to disentangle from her tight bun, blending with the glow cast from the fire.

Bertha quietened, before slinking over to let herself out of her makeshift prison. The landing creaked in protest under her weight. She crept in the direction of the staircase and quickened her pace as she descended. Upon reaching the second floor she scanned the hallway. Spotting the familiar door she knew belonged to Mr Rochester, she made her way towards it. The door opened easily and noiselessly; Mr Rochester never locked it. Bertha's eyes squinted as they adjusted to the darkness, illuminated only by the feeble glimmer cast from a solitary candle next to the bedside. In the bed itself, was the silhouette of a large figure. The hatred that never ceased to flare up within Bertha at the sight of her "husband" appeared in an instant. An otherworldly low growl escaped from her throat before she could stifle it. Mr Rochester stirred in his bed. Bertha backed into the shadows, blending in with the darkness. She stood silently, not daring to draw even a breath. Mr Rochester turned on his side, mumbling incoherently. Bertha waited impatiently, her fingers itching to find their way around Mr Rochester's throat. When she was sure he would not wake, Bertha inched cautiously forward, coming to a stop by the edge of the bed.

He lay there, the dark features of his face clearly visible. His large nose infuriated her; his thick eyebrows gave her an urge to scream in rage. In that instant, she felt compelled to hurt Mr Rochester, to cause him the pain that he had caused her all those years she was kept as a virtual prisoner.

An incident from years gone by penetrated her subconscious. Bertha recalled arms roughly circling her waist. She felt the pain of splinters piercing her bare feet while she struggled against someone who was hauling her brutally up a flight of stairs. She remembered the bruises on her body as a result of being thrown on the floor of an empty, desolate room.

"No!" a furious voice echoed from the stairs, "What are you doing?"

"But Master, she is strong, there is no other way to contain her," an apologetic voice responded.

"Do not cause her any harm!"

"Yes Master," the low voice once again answered.

To Bertha however, this reprimand meant nothing, for she still remembered the feelings of hurt and betrayal. As she looked up from the floor, she was met with the face of a man who had sworn to protect her on her wedding day. A simple reproach from a person who would then proceed to imprison her anyway was purely laughable. As she watched, the face disappeared behind the thunderous slam of a door.

Shaking her head vigorously to rid herself of the memory, Bertha snapped out of her fleeting moment of lucidity. Overcome by fury, Bertha spun wildly around the room in an attempt to find a weapon of any kind. The glow of a candle caught her attention. Bertha's eyes darted repeatedly from Rochester back to the candle. The candle back to Rochester. Her hand darted out and snatched the candle from its holder. Grasping it high above her head in the same way she would hold a dagger, Bertha swept the flame across the bed hangings. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the muffled chime of a clock striking two. Dropping the candle, Bertha chanced one last look at the sleeping form. The flames were quickly engulfing the bed hangings, spreading through the material, causing large sections to float to the floor in ashen curls. Turning on her heel, Bertha quickly exited the room.

Once outside, Bertha slowed, allowing her hand to trail idly along the wooden walls as she passed by. When her fingers no longer met the wall, she stopped and turned abruptly. She recognized it as another door. In that instant, she heard a muffled yawn emanate from within the chamber.

"Who is there?" a small, frightened voice cried out. Bertha did not answer. Instead, she let forth a deep and suppressed laugh that reverberated throughout the hallways.

Bertha started when she heard the rustling of sheets coming from the other side of the door. Wary of being caught, she hastened her pace. Upon reaching the stairs, Bertha darted up them at speed, oblivious to the fact that the decrepit timber was creaking loudly enough to wake any light sleeping inhabitants.

The landing on the third floor was a glorious sight to Bertha. Her pallid and large framed body was not used to such strenuous activities. The weathered door groaned against her shoulder as she roughly pushed it open, tumbling into the room in her haste and landing painfully on her knees. The chink of a bottle dropping from a limp hand alerted her to the fact that she had woken Grace. The musty bottle rolled towards Bertha, spilling what little was left of its contents and stopping when it bumped gently against her knees.

"Bertha! Where have you been? What have you done?" groaned Grace.

Bertha stumbled inelegantly to her feet.

"Well?" Grace's cloudy and bloodshot eyes crossed in an attempt to focus.

Bertha didn't reply to Grace; instead, she chose to stare blankly ahead, taunting Grace with her actions.

"I'm waiting Bertha," the impatience in her voice mingled with just a hint of uneasiness.

Bertha's face twisted into what appeared to be a gleefully sinister smile. Glancing pointedly in the direction of the now fading cinders in the fireplace, she whispered hoarsely, "playing with fire."

**The End**

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